Huck Page 10

  “Is everyone ready?” I asked.

  “Let’s make sure we have everything,” Rich cautioned. He started to look around.

  “Dad, let’s go. It doesn’t matter if we left anything.”

  Michael then put on his green Yankees cap. With each of us toting a suitcase on wheels, the mood somber, we headed for the lobby. The bill was ready. No one was interested in our Yankees tickets.

  “Wait,” I said to Rich who was rushing ahead. “Michael still hasn’t had anything to eat. We have to find him a sandwich or something.”

  “Mom, no.”

  “There’s nothing in the hotel,” Rich said. “We’ll find him something at the airport.”

  Out in the hotel parking lot the wind was starting to pick up. Michael’s cap blew off and he chased it down the row of cars. A man who had just parked and stepped out of his car grabbed the hat before it landed in a puddle. He handed it to Michael. “This looks like one you wouldn’t want to lose,” he said.

  Michael responded softly, “Thanks.”

  CHAPTER 7

  WE MUST HAVE radiated panic in our demeanor. Here we were, in the Tampa airport headed back to New York after a vacation that had lasted about thirty hours. The clerks at Hertz, the woman at the airline ticket counter, and just about everyone else we encountered in the airport went out of their way to be helpful. The airport was crowded with travelers, many of them tanned, now headed for colder climates, a fact given away by the wool coats folded and draped over their arms.

  We were consumed with worry, surrounded by potted palms and ceiling-to-floor windows that allowed the bright afternoon sun to flood in. At one point, as we looked for the airline counter, we found ourselves standing beneath copper pelicans hung from the ceiling, looking past signs that said things like SUN COUNTRY. It was surreal.

  We gave our Yankees tickets to a young man behind the American Airlines counter as we picked up our tickets. “Feels like my lucky day,” he said at having strangers hand over three free baseball tickets. “I haven’t been to a game at all this year, and I never got there last year because I was unemployed and couldn’t afford the tickets. So thanks, thanks a lot. Are you sure I can’t give you something for them?”

  “No,” Rich said. “Just hope for us that it turns out to be our lucky day, too.”

  We walked to security and stood at the end of the long line, taking off our shoes and putting them into the gray plastic tubs. Rich knew he would be stopped. “Why don’t you and Michael go ahead to the gate and I’ll catch up to you. See if you can find him something to eat.”

  “Okay. Do you want me to get something for you to eat?”

  “Get me anything.”

  The titanium prostheses in Rich’s hips always set off the metal detectors in airports, making his experience with airport security particularly onerous. The routine never varies. Before he walks though the metal detector, he tells the security guard that he has two artificial hips that will surely set the thing off. But it isn’t until after Rich walks through the metal detector and it starts beeping that the security guard calls someone over to investigate Rich further. Rich is then pulled aside while the security people go through his carry-on bag. Then they take a handheld metal-detecting wand and wave it over his entire body. When the wand reaches Rich’s hips, it starts beeping loudly, at which point a male security guard pats Rich down. Surely there is an easier way to make sure that someone with an artificial joint or two isn’t concealing something illicit.

  As we usually do, I went through the detector first and then Michael. Rich was still emptying his pockets.

  “You’ll have to go back through and take that hat off, young man,” the security man said to Michael.

  Michael took off his green Yankees cap, put it in a plastic bin, and pushed the bin down the length of the rolling metal tubes until it was pulled along through the x-ray machine. Then he walked back through the metal detector for a second time. I handed Michael his shoes and his hat and said, “Let’s go find something to eat.”

  “Mom, I don’t want anything to eat.”

  “Well, Dad’s hungry, so let’s go find something for him, and we’ll get you something just in case you get hungry on the plane.”

  “I really don’t want anything, and I won’t want anything on the plane either.”

  “Okay. Let’s get something for Dad.”

  We walked through the airport quickly, as though getting the food fast would get us back to New Jersey sooner. Under other circumstances, Michael would have laughed at the sign that read FRANKLY GOURMET and would have wanted to see what an airport gourmet hot dog looked like. But I didn’t point it out. We stopped at an utterly nondescript stand with ready-made sandwiches stacked inside one refrigerated metal cooler and bottles of soda, juice, and water lined up in another. There were a few metal baskets with bags of chips and cookies on the counter alongside the register.

  I grabbed three turkey sandwiches and three bottles of water, trying to make quick work of it before Michael told me not to buy as much as a bottle of water for him. I paid the uninterested, massively overweight woman sitting half on and half off a wooden stool, taking people’s money and handing them back their change with as little verbal interaction as possible.

  I was struggling to hold the bag of food and get my change back into my wallet as an impatient Michael started rushing away from me. “Hang on, let me just get my money put away,” I called to him.

  “I just want to get to New Jersey,” Michael said. “There is nothing we can do until we get there. I hate being in this airport.”

  I managed to slow him down to a walk instead of a run, and we made our way back to the departure gate. It was crowded with children under the age of five and their frazzled-looking parents. One mother was traveling alone with twin infant girls, each dressed in a pink dress with white daisies, each clutching a pink stuffed dog, each crying.

  I was distraught. All I could think about was how to help Michael deal with this level of heartbreak. He was in so much pain. I wondered if I had made a mistake in thinking getting a dog would spare Michael the anguish of watching his parents deal with a terrifying disease. Wasn’t this agonizing, too?

  Rich was already at the gate and had thrown his bags over three of the fake leather seats. He seemed angry. I didn’t want to ask him why. I didn’t know if the security people had given him an especially hard time, or if he was still blaming himself for Huck’s disappearance, or if he had some business call that had upset him.

  “I got you a turkey sandwich,” I said.

  “Thanks. I’m going to walk over to where it is quieter and start making some phone calls. Why don’t you and Michael sit here.”

  “Okay. But I can start making some calls, too.”

  Rich suggested I call Lisa, the breeder from whom we had gotten Huck. “Maybe she’s heard of this happening with some of the other poodles she has raised. Maybe there is something about the breed that we should know or maybe she has some ideas about how to go about finding him. And, oh yeah, ask her if he can really withstand subfreezing temperatures overnight.”

  Michael dropped his body onto the chair. I put my arm around him.

  “Mom, do you think Huck has been hit by a car?”

  “No, I don’t think so. He’s very smart, you know. I really do think he’s smart enough to stay out of the street.”

  “He must be really scared.”

  “I’m going to call Lisa. Do you want me to walk away to call her or do you want to listen?” I asked.

  “I don’t care.”

  I dialed Lisa’s number. It was sheer coincidence that the town where Lisa lived, the place Huck had been born, was not all that far from the Tampa airport.

  Lisa answered the phone in a jovial voice so incongruous with what I was feeling. I hated having to deliver the news.

  “Oh, no, oh, that little love bug,” Lisa cried out as I told her we had left Huck with relatives in New Jersey and he had run away. “Why didn’t you br
ing him with you to Florida? You know these little guys are great travelers and lots of hotels let you bring pets.”

  I suddenly felt completely incompetent. “It never really occurred to us,” I said somewhat defensively. “My sister is a very experienced dog owner.”

  “Oh my, oh no, this is just terrible. I hope no one steals him,” Lisa said. “I would say you have to just keep looking and looking. I don’t really have any special advice. I’m just really worried someone will pick him up and keep him. I’d maybe call some of the vets there, in case someone brings him in.”

  “Lisa, how much cold do you think Huck could tolerate? Do you think he could survive in subfreezing temperatures?”

  “Well, I don’t know. The vet down here said he could survive in some pretty cold temperatures—you know we had to get that all approved before we sent him to you—but I don’t really know how much cold he could take and for how long. He’s only eight months old; he may not even be full grown yet.”

  “Do you think he could survive overnight in temperatures below the freezing mark, below 32 degrees?”

  “Oh, I just don’t know. I’ll bet your son is just, oh your poor son, he must be heartbroken. Oh dear, wait ’til I tell Joe. Please, call me and let me know what happens.”

  I was glad she didn’t want to discuss any further why I had thought it was okay to leave Huck in New Jersey.

  I turned to tell Michael what Lisa had said and only then realized he had wandered off. I had a moment of panic, but then spotted his green baseball cap down by the next gate. His hands were in his pockets, his head was down. He was slowly shuffling along the blue-and-white tiled floor.

  As I watched him make his way back to our seats, I thought about what Lisa had said about someone stealing Huck. Despite my own childhood nightmare of having a dog stolen, it had never occurred to me that someone would steal Huck.

  “What did she say?” Michael asked.

  “She said we should look and look and look.”

  “What else did she say?”

  “She said we should call all the vets in the area, because someone might take Huck into their own house and then take him to a vet.”

  “You mean someone might steal Huck?”

  “Yes, that is what she was saying.”

  “I’d rather someone steal Huck and take good care of him than have him be killed by a car.”

  I was still trying to absorb Michael’s ability to put Huck’s well-being above his own emotions when he said: “Mom, if we don’t find Huck, I don’t ever want another dog.”

  “We can talk more about that, but I understand.”

  By now Rich had been gone for a while. There was movement around the boarding gate. People were starting to line up to get on the plane. I started to wonder just where Rich had gone to make phone calls and who he was calling.

  “Where’s Dad?”

  “I don’t know, honey. He should be back any minute.”

  Michael and I stood; I picked up the bag with the sandwiches and the water and started to walk toward the gate.

  “Mom, seriously, where is Dad?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The waiting area was now nearly empty. Most of the passengers were either on the plane or on the line to get on the plane.

  I was about to call Rich on his cell phone when he appeared. “I’m sorry I took so long. Did they call our row yet?”

  “We were one of the first ones called. We must be toward the back of the plane.”

  “I’m sorry. I just had to clear my head. I had to try and figure out how we get a quick education on what people do when things like this happen. I called Miller’s office.”

  It took me a few seconds to remember that Miller was Dr. Miller, the vet.

  “Did he have any good ideas?”

  “He wasn’t there, one of his office assistants was there. She said dogs usually go where the traffic is. She thought it was possible he is running along Route 17.”

  “I just don’t believe that,” I said. I didn’t want to believe it. Route 17 was a highway.

  “I know. I don’t really believe that either. She lost me when she said Huck might be headed for the George Washington Bridge. That just sounds totally implausible. She did have one good suggestion. She said we should make sure the reward sign says ‘heartbroken boy.’ She said people would be more likely to respond if they thought there was a child involved. I do think that’s a good idea.”

  Then he paused and whispered out of earshot of Michael: “But, you know, if she is right about Huck running toward the traffic and running toward Route 17, there is no telling how far away he could be by the time we get to New Jersey. It also dramatically increases the likelihood of him being hit by a car.”

  With that horrific thought in our heads, we fought our way down the tight aisles of the plane toward the back. We did indeed get the last three seats on the plane. They were in the last row, right up against the bathrooms. Because there was not a row of seats behind our row, it felt even more confining, more claustrophobic than plane seats usually feel. Michael sat by the window, I sat in the middle, and Rich sat on the aisle.

  We fastened our seat belts and tried to settle into our seats. Michael looked at both Rich and me and said: “Whatever happens, we can’t let the Clarks feel bad about this.” He then leaned forward, put his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, and began to sob. I rubbed his back. There wasn’t much else to do or to say. Michael had always turned to me to soothe him. This was the first time I could remember when nothing I could do or say would console him.

  Rich turned to me and quietly said, “You know I needed this vacation, we both needed this vacation, but I have to switch modes now. Michael is going to be looking to me for a certain attitude, for strength. I don’t have the luxury of feeling anything else. I can’t feel bad about Huck being lost right now, because that is a distraction and a waste of the time I need to think and to look for him. I have to be tough. I don’t know where this is going. We are in uncharted waters. I have no idea what this is going to take.”

  It was as though Rich just needed to hear himself say it all out loud. It was as though he were talking to himself. He didn’t wait for me to respond.

  “I can get in another call before the plane takes off,” he said while reaching in his pocket for his cell phone. “I’m going to call the Finkelsteins.”

  “Why them?” I asked.

  “They always have good ideas. Susan just might know someone or something. Besides, she and Rick love us and will understand how important this is to us.”

  Susan Finkelstein is always at the other end of her cell phone. I do mean always. Her friends tease her for her constant state of hypervigilance, but they are the same people who count on it as well. I am sure she is listed as the person to call in case of an emergency on dozens of school forms.

  In my very early days at The New York Times, I once covered an event where Barbara Walters was being given an award. She was introduced by Roone Arledge, who, at the time, was president of ABC News. Commenting on Barbara Walters’s relentlessness and resourcefulness, he said if he were stranded in a foreign country, or taken hostage anywhere in the world and he could make only one phone call, he would call Barbara Walters. I would call Susan Finkelstein.

  “This is all wrong. This should not be happening to you,” Susan said when Rich told her why we were now on a plane heading back to New York. “This is just wrong.”

  Rich had reached the Finkelsteins in California where they were spending spring break.

  “Susan, I need you to think about this and help us figure out what we should do to find Huck.”

  “We will. Let me just get Jesse. He’s been having an all-day tantrum about going to Disney instead of this really cool museum. I’m sure he’ll want to talk to Michael.”

  Just then, the flight attendant announced that we were about to depart and all cell phones would have to be turned off.

  “Listen, I’m going to have to shu
t off my phone. I’ll call you when we land. Talk about it with Rick and Jesse and Sophie. See if you have any ideas.”

  “Okay, okay, we will. Have a safe flight. Call us when you get in.”

  The Finkelsteins had been touring the very off-beat Museum of Jurassic Technology in Los Angeles when Rich called. Susan hung up with Rich and turned to her husband, Rick, and said, “They’re doing this really crazy thing. Huck ran away in New Jersey and they’re going there to try and find him. It is crazy. You know this is the first vacation they have had since the cancer. This is just crazy.”

  Rick agreed. “That dog is gone. It’s over.”

  Meanwhile, we were filled with more of a sense of hopefulness, or at least purpose, as the plane banked skyward. There was a certain relief in finally being airborne. At least we were getting physically closer to New Jersey, however incrementally. For a minute or two, Michael also seemed relieved. I suggested he take a bite of his sandwich. By now it was after six o’clock at night. Michael had not eaten since nine o’clock that morning.

  He reluctantly agreed. I handed him the triangular box the sandwich was in and opened one of the bottles of water and held it in my hand. He picked up the rather stale-looking turkey sandwich with both hands, stared at it for a moment or two, and then bit into it. He looked out the window and then back at me.

  “Can you take this away? I feel sick.”

  I took the sandwich off his lap and handed it and the water to Rich.

  “Mom, I think I’m going to throw up.”

  Michael reached for the bag in the back pocket of the seat ahead of him, leaned over, opened up the bag, and threw up into it. After a minute or two that seemed more like an hour, he sat up, his face full of perspiration, and handed me the bag. I handed the bag to Rich. Rich was about to stand up to go and dispose of the bag when Michael said: “I still feel sick, don’t take the bag away.”

  For the rest of the three-hour flight from Tampa to New York, Michael was either throwing up or resting his head on my lap. The physical space we were occupying felt like it was getting smaller. The odor from the bathrooms right behind our seats grew more offensive as the flight wore on. The woman with the twin infants was pacing up and down the aisle with one baby in each arm.